


Fleeting

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little one shot. Just a peek into an AU that never got steam. Would have been in the Placebo-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting

Well, love, we have seven days to go. Oh my god. Seven. You are so very happy. And because of that, everything is just a bit alright for me as well. Other than that damned tailor coming to my rooms for the fitting while your brother is tutting over me like a hen. I do love the lines though. Of the suit, the shirt, everything. I’m beginning to understand why you have your clothes bespoke for you.

So we went with the jaunty dove grey with the orange pinstripe did we? It had better have some wonderful orange tie to go with, you hear? No playing it safe with what you’ve chosen. No, it screams promise and hope everytime I see the material. It may even become my new favorite suit. Maybe I’ll go see if I might find some orange socks...well it is reminiscent of our first night out isn’t it? Just a bit?

Sherlock, is that sentiment I see myself being clothed in?

Am I your shock banket now?

It’s been ten weeks. Three since The Great Compromise. Well, that is what I am calling it at any rate. Do you really think we will be able to pull it off? You do seem to be doing well with hand holding on the sofa, and it seems as if you can handle dancing, at least for the few minutes we would need to have our first one. I’m still very nervous, but I hope, beyond anything, Sherlock, that you’ll be able to sleep with me on our wedding night.

I know, you’re not ready for anything else, nor would I even think to ask it of you, love. But to wake with you, your face so soft, haloed by your curls...oh, my heart aches for this...

Alright, I’m out for a bit. Going to pick you up at Bart’s and we’re off to dinner.

Love you all ways.

~JHW

~

“Sherlock?”

Later that night, after a quiet dinner with their wedding party, John had pulled Sherlock giddily up the stairs. He had indulged a bit much in the champagne but as far as his thinking went a bloke was only going to have a wedding week once in their life, and Lord knows that he and Sherlock deserved some happiness where they could get it.

“Sherlock? Love? I’m here...wake up.”

Sherlock had pulled his violin out and began regaling some of John’s favorite pieces as he moved into the kitchen and started the kettle. The flourishes were light, so very promising, so very wistful; extolling the joy Sherlock could not bring himself to discuss openly. John knew this, all of this, was still so very raw and tenuous under the new skin that was reforming over Sherlock’s emotional and physical scars. He was just so very happy that the man hadn’t entirely shut down and become catatonic, or worse a walking breathing automaton. Sherlock, in so many tiny breathtakingly sweet ways were proving to the both of them that their life could go on.

“Hush, now. I’m here. I have you...”

They had drank their tea, finished their nightly routines, and ever so slowly drifted to sleep entwined. Sherlock had begun wearing full pajamas to bed, so John had done the same in kind. He would rather them be together with clothes where he could help Sherlock if needed, than separated by the whole flat and having to rush through it if Sherlock were having a nightmare.

He fully appreciated what Sherlock had been tormented with, the fact his beautiful brain had to process and try to categorise something as traumatic or brutal as he had been through, it was no surprise that he had the terrors. John was ever careful with Sherlock, even if he didn’t show any other possible tells of PTSD.

“Sherlock!” John tentatively touched his shoulder, trying to ease him out of the nightmare while speaking with a determined insistence. “Sherlock, love, please...wake up!”  

Even though John’s PTSD had mostly resolved itself, he still remembered the night terrors that had affected him so when John had first moved in at 221B Baker. The helplessness, hurting for someone else who is struggling, the awful feelings you couldn’t even wash away some times. As if the nightmares themselves were a viscous sort of  entity that clung to you like a second skin whispering and gnawing you to the bone. The suicidal, depressive, gutted feeling that you could work to hide. How your worth was now being weighed against a horrific event and you never felt you’d find traction again. Yes, John understood all this too well.

In a very small way he was glad to have gone through it in hopes that it might smooth and help Sherlock as he continued, they continued to work, towards wholeness.

~

“John! I said leave me the hell alone!” Sherlock shouted from the locked ensuite. “I do not need this fervent coddling, I’m just in a shower to calm down!”

“Is that why I can feel the steam from under the door? Sherlock open her up or I swear I’ll break it down!”

Within the span of three heart beats the door wrenched open with a very angry, very pink Sherlock on the other side.  John could visibly see the storm brewing around and within his lover. He knew now was not the time for words, but for action. He followed Sherlock into the shower still clothed in his pajamas and made certain that Sherlock saw him as he stood at the built-in bench and took of only his shirt and bottoms, leaving his boxers still on, then made his way toward Sherlock maintaining eye contact.

“I’m going to reach for the flannel and your wash, alright?” John spoke evenly, but made sure the affection and warmth he felt resounded in his words. “Unless you’d rather I not?”

“Please...use yours...” Sherlock responded in a small voice, retreating from the situation towards his Thoughtful Spot. They had helped him mentally build a new area away from his palace hoping that this new space, if tainted, could be deleted later so that the long term marring effects might not effect Sherlock’s ability to retreat to the knowledge and safety (at times) of his palace.  “I want yo on my skin.”

John understood this new language they were building together, this new trust, and was so very thankful for it. A very hard-won peace stole over the shower as John methodically scoured Sherlock in an almost clinical way, helping to detach the emotions of the process of another person touching Sherlock so that he could quickly categorise this as ‘Safe’ once again and relax. By the time John had reached the second arm, Sherlock had relaxed into the soothing ministrations .

“Ah, see there, less than three minutes this time. I’m right here, let me know if I need to stop. I’m just going to wash you, nothing more.”

“John...” the quiet voice returned. “I’m so very sorry...I wish...”

“Shhh, now, let me care for you. Then I’ll bundle you up and get you back swaddled under the covers and make us a light breakfast alright?”

“Toast with honey?”

“Yes, with honey. And an egg.”

“If I must...”

Good, he was coming back to a bit of normal. Didn’t seem to take as long as the last one, hopefully this time John had caught him before it had gotten bad. Or maybe it was that it hadn’t started worse...whatever the reason John was glad to see he was able to help calm the turbulence for his love.


End file.
